Salvation
by KKGlinka
Summary: Dr. Bonnibel helps when Marceline meets the wrong end of a knife. (Modern world AU)


Note: This story is set in EB's Gangland AU, a modern world in which Ooo is a large city overrun by mafia and gangs. Dr. Bonnibel runs a children's research clinic, Lady runs a veterinary clinic, Finn's father is a murdered cop and Marceline is a hobo street musician. Learn more about it (and see the art) by visiting 'therebemorefoolery' on tumblr under the tag 'gangland'.

* * *

"I'm not going. Finn! I said I'm fine!"

"You're not fine, Marce! You're bleeding! Look, it's all over your shirt!"

"Get off of me!"

Bonnibel looked up from her computer where she was checking a patient's records and out through the wide windows facing the street. Outside, Finn Mertens was clinging tenaciously to Marceline Abadeer's coat. He was pulling her toward the door, heels braced on the sidewalk as Marceline started dragging the teenage boy in the opposite direction.

She pushed away from her computer and hurried to the door, opening it. A blast of icy wind hit her in the face and she winced. This winter was shaping up harsh and refused to relent its grip on the city. Bracing the door, she watched for a moment as Finn struggled to retain his grip.

Marceline stumbled, falling to her knees, arm wrapped around her side. The injury was concealed by the heavy, olive green, army issue jacket but Bonnibel could see that her skin was tinged yellow. A sheen of sweat on her face, the bruised eye and the pale lips told Bonnibel everything she needed to know.

"Marceline, get in here."

"Fuck off," she yelled back weakly, standing.

"Very nice. I've heard them all. Don't make me drag you in here."

"I'm fine."

"You're in shock. I can see it from here. Did you get mugged?"

Finn craned around to answer. "Some dudes tried to take her guitar. She kicked their asses but got knifed. She's bleeding pretty bad but won't go to the ER!"

Bonnibel started out, marching purposefully toward Marceline. Finn was a good kid and he never lied. He frequently played vigilante in the back streets, accompanied by his mastiff, a breed especially designed to pursue and disable humans. His mother was usually at work and unable, or unwilling, to prevent her son from portraying himself as some comic book hero. So he roamed through the city wearing his silly hat, armed with a wooden sword, helping anyone he saw in need.

Ultimately, it meant Bonnibel wound up patching up his cuts and scrapes and treating the occasional concussion. With his frequent injuries, his mother would wind up in debt going to the urgent care center. It was a small favor and it kept Finn coming back to the Candy Kingdom treatment and research center, allowing Bonnibel to keep tabs on him. One more patient wouldn't be a big deal.

She grabbed Marceline by the collar and spun her around, checking her vision response with a quick finger test. Marceline's pupils were constricted and she failed to focus completely, though that might have been due to confusion.

Marceline tried to glare, failing miserably. "I'm fine. I just need to rest a bit."

Bonnibel hunched against the bitter cold, pulling aside the jacket and peeling away Marceline's bloodied hand. The entire side of her shirt was stained dark. It gleamed wetly in the light, a horizontal tear in the fabric. She looked up at Marceline's bruised face, the ashen skin bleached of its usual golden brown, and shook her head.

"You're coming inside."

"I can't pay."

"I know, but I can't, in good conscience, let you leave. I can't tell how deep the knife penetrated. It may have deflected off your ribs, or you may have a punctured lung." She wrapped her hand around Marceline's shoulder, giving Finn an approving smile, and pulled. "I know where you live and if you go out in this freezing weather in your state, you'll wake up in the morgue with one of those cute little toe tags marked 'Jane Doe'."

Marceline thrust out her lower lip sullenly, then dropped her gaze, shoulders sagging. "I can't go to the ER. They'll put me in a computer."

"Ah, I see," Bonnibel noted, guiding Marceline into her clinic.

It was officially a children's hospital, a research clinic specializing in the most difficult of conditions and diseases. The patients in her care suffered from rare and untreatable ailments, many dying slowly as she and her team raced to find alternatives. While failure was statistically unavoidable, the successes carried the day and brought in grant money for future work. They weren't in the best part of town, but the lease was reasonable and left more funds for research.

Finn followed them in, his dog, Jake, immediately sitting down obediently by the door as he'd been trained. Officially, only service animals were permitted in the clinic, but Finn and Jake were inseparable. Moreover, the dog was fiercely protective of the boy and would throw an incessant barking fit if left outside.

She sighed in relief, back in the warmth of the clinic. Nodding at her receptionist and senior R.N., Mrs. Lody, she signaled that she intended to take Marceline to the nearest free room.

"Finn, it's getting late and will be dark soon. Why don't you go home so your mother doesn't worry. I'll take care of Marcy."

He chewed on the inside of his cheek, looking up into her eyes with a mixture of trust and concern, blond hair poking out from underneath his white hat. "She's not gonna freeze for real, is she?"

She forced a smile. As much as the boy got around, the news never mentioned the collection of bodies from alleys and sidewalks during winter. Most people didn't care about the homeless, certainly not enough to boost ratings or waste page space. Many were callous enough to call it a blessing, a culling of unwanted poor and mentally ill. Sometimes, Bonnibel wished those people would freeze or starve instead.

"I promise she won't freeze," she assured him, glancing out the window as a small flurry began, flakes drifting down in jerky swings.

"Okay," he said with a relieved smile. Just like that, his world was secured and he bounded toward the door, calling to Jake.

"You shouldn't lie to him," Marceline reprimanded in a low tone. "He's a good kid."

"I wasn't lying," Bonnibel countered, turning back toward her as they walked into an exam room. "Take off that jacket and shirt. If you need help, let me know."

"Do I get a paper shirt?"

"It'll be in the way but if you insist," Bonnibel agreed, rolling her eyes and reaching for a plastic bin containing a folded assorted of pale blue examination gowns. There should be some larger ones in the batch.

"Naw, it's okay. You shouldn't waste 'em."

Bonnibel straightened, lips tight against what she wanted to say. She went to the counter, washed her hands and gathered together likely supplies. By the time she turned around wearing latex gloves and a face mask, Marceline had stripped down to a dingy sports bra and her stained BDU's. Without the concealing bulk of clothing, the clear impression of ribs and gaunt dip of her stomach revealed an unpleasant truth.

"All your injuries are above the waist?" she asked, pushing aside hopeless frustration.

Marceline looked at her dryly. "All they did was try an' mug me."

"I needed to check," Bonnibel said evenly, eyeing the injuries she could see critically.

There were a number of bruises, the classic outline of fingers on her arms, a blackened eye, a small cut on her temple, dried blood under her nose and on her lips, smeared across her chin. Defensive bruises along her forearms were negligible. The most severe wound was clearly the laceration to her ribs where Marceline's hand was pressed tightly.

Swallowing convulsively, Marceline lowered her head, arm tightening, eyes bright with pain.

"All right," Bonnibel began, "you need to let go so I can examine the wound. I'll wipe it down with a local analgesic, but you'll still feel pain. I'll be careful but try not to move."

"Can't you give me a shot or pill before you start?"

"Not until I determine if you have internal injuries. I'm sorry," she apologized, preparing a gauze wipe.

She started to clean the general area, working her way toward the laceration. As she approached, Marceline stiffened, grabbing the edges of the exam table in a white-knuckled grip. She bit back a cry and it came out as a garbled moan. Bonnibel worked as quickly as she could, probing the wound and checking for debris before cleaning and disinfecting as much as possible.

By the time she finished, Marceline was bent over panting, sweat beading on her forehead. "Oh god," she whimpered, "That really hurts."

"I know. Just another minute. I'll get an IV in you and it'll feel better," Bonnibel answered hurriedly.

Throwing the used materials into the hazards container, she wheeled out of the room to fetch a saline bag and a vial of injectable morphine. A low dose should suffice. She didn't want Marceline passing out on her. Regulations forbid her from leaving her in a treatment room without entering her into the computer system as an official patient. As she was an adult, queries would result and it would be another black mark on Bonnibel's record.

Returning to the room, she cleaned the crook of Marceline's arm, found a solid vein and placed the IV line. Hooking up the saline on a rolling tower, she prepared the painkiller and injected it through the inlet as Marceline watched closely. As a result, she saw when her pupils dilated as the medication took effect. Switching to a second syringe, she added a broad spectrum antibiotic.

"Better?"

"Yeah," Marceline sighed in relief, blinking. "It's not gonna turn me into a junkie, is it?"

Bonnibel smiled. "No. That requires regular use over at least five days. I'll be sending you off with something less powerful... Oh."

"What?"

"I would need to write you prescription, unless I raided the pharmacy," she answered with a grimace. "Or... I have an idea. Later," she concluded. "Lay down on your left side. I'm going to stitch you up."

Bonnibel began by injecting a local analgesic, more powerful than the one in the initial cleaning. She gave it a few minutes to work while preparing suturing supplies. Marceline remained still as she stitched, only flinching a couple of times as the needle passed too close to a more sensitive nerve. Bonnibel finished by applying a dressing, taping it down firmly in case Marceline was less than careful tending to it.

"All right. You can sit up. I want you to come back tomorrow so I can change the dressing and check for infection."

Marceline nodded placidly, sitting up. Looking around, she slid off the table and picked up her shirt. She studied it for a moment, then asked, "You got any rags or towels or something?"

Bonnibel looked at the bloodied shirt and grimaced. She couldn't think of any replacement shirts to offer, so she fetched out some rough, overly bleached towels from a cabinet. "Use these."

"But they're white."

"It's what they're for."

Nodding again, Marceline used the towels to press dry her shirt until most of the blood was saturating the towels instead. When satisfied, she pulled it over her head carefully. Grabbing a clean edge of a used towel, she wiped her face experimentally. Upon seeing the brown smear, she rubbed more vigorously to remove the crusted blood on her face.

"Where do I put-"

"Covered hamper in the corner. We bleach and re-use them."

Marceline wobbled a bit as she made her way to it, stepping on the lever to raise the lid, and dropping the towels into the lined can. Coming back, she put on her coat in slow, careful motions to avoid stretching the damaged intercostal tissues. Buttoning her coat, she bit her lip looking at Bonnibel.

"You mentioned something about extra meds?"

"Oh, right! Stay here. I need to catch Lady before she closes up for the day."

Dashing off, Bonnibel hurried through the rear alley entrance to the adjoining veterinary clinic. She pounded on the door, bracing against the cold and noting the snow was coming down hard and fast. A tech opened the door and Bonnibel shoved her way inside.

"Where's Lady?"

The tech motioned with his chin toward a treatment room. "She's almost done. Last minute sick cat."

Bonnibel waited against the wall, weaving impatiently but respecting Lady's professional sphere. The Korean immigrant was sweet as a person could be and forgiving of the average American's difficulty in pronouncing her name. So when some starting calling, 'Hey, Lady', she accepted the generalization as a nickname.

Lady opened the door, poking out her head. "Hey, sistah! What you doing here?"

"I hear some pet meds can be used by humans. Do you have any analgesics I can have, off record?"

Lady raised an eyebrow, stepping out and closing the door behind her. "You gonna go out back and be dealing? 'Hey baby, wanna feel good?'" she teased.

Bonnibel rolled her eyes, fighting the urge to rush back to her clinic and check that Marceline had obeyed her order. It would be just like the street musician to sneak off back to her underpass by the river. "You know me better than that. I've got Marceline in one of my rooms and she's got some issue with leaving a paper trail. I can't write a script so..."

"Uh huh," Lady drawled. "You big time crook. New mob boss," she mimed tipping a fedora and looking crafty, "The Doctor Bubblegum."

"Don't joke," Bonnibel snapped. "I need to get back before she creeps off. Can you help me? If I send her off without something, she'll probably find a real drug dealer. If we're lucky, all she'll do is smoke some weed."

Lady made a moue, bobbing her head and looking off to the side.

Bonnibel held up a hand. "I don't want to know."

Snorting, Lady shook her head in amusement. "I get something but just this one time. No more!"

"I hear you loud and clear," Bonnibel agreed solemnly.

Returning to her clinic, Bonnibel heaved a sigh of relief at finding Marceline where she'd left her. The woman was leaning against the exam table, staring vacantly at the wall, head cocked to one side, eyes lidded. There was no way she could let her go outside in that state.

"I'm back," she announced, when Marceline failed to acknowledge her presence.

"Mm hm."

"I've got something," she declared, holding up the small square bottle. "These are very low doses, so you'll need to take five at a time, every eight hours. You can take up to seven, but no more, okay?"

Marceline took the bottle, inspecting the label. "You got this next door?"

"Yes."

"It's for dogs, or something?"

"Technically, but it's used for people, too."

"Yeah," Marceline said slowly, pocketing the bottle. "I'm pretty sure this is illegal."

"I don't know anything about it," Bonnibel stated primly with a straight face.

Marceline laughed weakly, then winced with a crooked smile. "I should go. It's about closing time, right?"

"About that," Bonnibel said, "You'll recall I promised Finn I wouldn't let you freeze. So, you're welcome to stay at my place for the night."

Smile disappearing, Marceline eyed her warily, gaze becoming critical and assessing as she passed it over Bonnibel. "You want me to go to your place? For the night?"

"Sure. I'll whip up some dinner and you can make yourself at home."

By then, Marceline's expression had closed off, a hard edge to her eyes. "I appreciate the offer, but I don't do that sort of thing."

"Excuse me?"

"You start trading and pretty soon you're taking money instead of dinner. I've seen it happen plenty of times. No way," Marceline continued, shaking her head emphatically. "Man, I didn't realize you swung that way, but no."

Bonnibel closed her eyes, sinking into a pit of burning mortification. Forcing herself to look at Marceline, she corrected, "That's not what I meant. I made a promise and I'm going to keep it. You're still in shock. Your body temperature is low, the morphine impacts your judgment and impairs your reflexes. If I send you out there, there is a good chance you will go to sleep and never wake up, no matter how many blankets you've stashed."

Flushing, Marceline fidgeted.

"Scouts honor," Bonnibel added, holding up three fingers in the traditional salute.

"Just the night? I can go in the morning?"

"Yes," Bonnibel confirmed, getting ahold of her composure. "My couch is a pull-out. You can eat, take a shower if you want, have a good night's sleep. And I can, in good conscience, tell Finn that his favorite musician is okay."

"Okay," Marceline mumbled. "But this isn't gonna be a thing."

"Not an issue," she reassured. "But, I need to wrap up some paperwork. You mind waiting out front until I'm done?"

"Sure," Marceline answered, heading for the door.

"Wait for me," Bonnibel repeated anxiously, amending, "in the waiting room."

"I said I would," Marceline said irritably.

"All right, okay, sorry."

* * *

They walked quickly, heads down against the blowing snow. With the bad weather, Bonnibel had tried to get a cab, but everyone else had the same idea. So they had caught the metro along with the packed rush hour crowd. Now they were walking the last leg to her apartment.

She punched in the security code for the front foyer, then picked up her mail from the cluster box. Tucking the wad of letters and junk into her purse, she made for the elevator, Marceline trailing along silently.

Taking in the elegant furnishings and the curious security guard, Marceline shifted her weight, hands in her pockets. "You don't have to do all that stuff, Doc. A bed is plenty."

Bonnibel shrugged, familiar with the reluctance to accept charity. The trick was to make it seem incidental rather than a favor. "I'm going to eat and I'll have enough for you, so you might as well. Besides, I know about the soup kitchen."

Marceline swung her head around sharply, as they stepped into the lift. "What're you talking about?"

"The closest one at Fourth and Quincy. It was shut down suddenly. Finn told me about it because it caused a real fuss with the locals, not that I blame them. The next one is five miles out," she explained, while inserting her override key and selecting the top floor.

Marceline hunched in place petulantly.

"It seemed suspicious, so I looked into it," she continued, eyes facing forward. "There are allegations that the mob was involved, bribes from the Nightosphere of all things. And then I realized, you go there and maybe it's a coincidence, but apparently, Boss Abadeer has a missing daughter."

Marceline jabbed the nearest upcoming floor button, followed by the door open button, in apparent panic.

"Calm down," Bonnibel ordered.

"Fuck you. You don't know shit."

"Didn't you suspect something when I accepted your desire to stay off the grid?"

Pacing in the elevator, eyes wide and breath shallow, Marceline stared in surprise. "Don't you dare," she warned

"I'm not going to tell anyone and there's little cause for concern. I'm not exactly average when it comes to intelligence or resources," she explained dryly, with a half shrug as the elevator stopped. She blocked the exit with her body. "I figured it out accidentally and I absolutely refuse to let you out into that snow."

"Get out of my way."

"No."

"You damn bitch, get out of my way!"

The doors began to close.

"Why? What do you think I'm going to do to you? Turn you into the police or FBI?"

Marceline looked at the closed doors despairingly. "If they get me, they'll use me to go after my dad." Then she sneered, "Except, it won't work. I'll be stuck in jail for no reason and he won't take the bait."

"I guessed as much," Bonnibel admitted. "He knows the streets. He could find you if he really wanted, couldn't he?" Technically, it seemed he already had found his errant daughter.

Eyes clouding, suspiciously bright, Marceline clenched her fists and backed against the lift wall. "What're you gonna do?"

"Feed you, make sure you stay warm and set you loose."

"That's it?"

"I'm a medical doctor, Marceline. I've no association with law enforcement and it's unethical for me to share your personal information, so calm down. I understand why you want to keep a low profile, regardless of your reasons."

The elevator dinged, signaling their arrival.

"You coming?"

Bonnibel swept out of the elevator without waiting and couldn't stop the smug satisfaction when she heard Marceline follow. Given her options, it was the logical response but, in her experience, most people weren't too rational most times. Marceline kept pace until they reached the door to Bonnibel's apartment, hesitating only at the threshold.

With a deep breath and suppressed frown, she stepped through the door and gawked. It was the penthouse level and one wall of the apartment was paneled in broad windows that looked out over the river. She wandered through the living room until she reached the glass, admiring the view.

Bonnibel left her to it, knowing she would spot her overpass eventually. She hung her coat in the closet and set her purse on the counter, flipping through her mail. Tossing the junk, she set aside a couple of bills and several thick packets of medical documentation.

Marceline was still by the windows.

"Feel free to look around but stay out of my room."

"You got your mutant cyborg army in there?"

"I... excuse me?" She grinned abruptly, tickled by the notion. "No, I'm having them shipped in next week." She saw a smile smile creep onto Marceline's face.

Stepping away from the windows, Marceline pulled off her coat and draped it over the back of the couch. She regarded the pale pink cushions dubiously, wiping her hands on her dirty pants.

"Sit down," Bonnibel told her. "I have cleaning service and I hardly spend time here anyway. Besides, you're not the messiest person to ever sit on my couch."

Glancing over in surprised confusion, Marceline sat gingerly, fingering the bandages under her shirt. "That's kinda impressive," she admitted.

Shaking her head, Bonnibel opened the refrigerator door, saying over her shoulder, "You've never been around children, have you?"

"Well, no."

"They're like little tornadoes of destruction. Leave them alone in a room for five minutes and it'll be a disaster when you come back. Trust me, you won't make as much of a mess as a five year old."

Marceline looked back thoughtfully, but didn't remark on it. She settled more deeply into the cushions, stretching out her legs, black combat boots in stark contrast to the beige carpet. Wet spots marked where she had stood by the window and began to form in front of the couch.

Bonnibel shrugged mentally. The steamer would take care of it. "Do you want a shower? I have some more paperwork to do before I turn in."

"You don't mind?"

"There are extra towels in the cabinet by the bathroom, down the hall and to your right. If you see a lab, you've gone too far and I can get you some clothes to sleep in, if you want."

"You don't need to-"

"Marceline, I have more than I need," she said sternly. "It's no imposition."

After a minute, Marceline stood, gave her another considering look and went to look down the hallway. "I guess, maybe?"

"If you are, I need to cover your bandage so it doesn't get wet."

Nodding, Marceline made her way to the kitchen, following the line of the island and around past the refrigerator. "What do you need to do?"

Bonnibel pulled open an drawer, fetching out a roll of plastic wrap. From another, she yanked out a roll of duct tape.

Marceline wrinkled her nose, seeing it.

"I know, it'll hurt when you remove it. On the other hand, you probably won't notice it so much the way you are. Here," she gestured for Marceline to come closer.

Laying out the plastic wrap, she folded it double and shaped it to match the bandages. When Marceline lifted up the hem of her shirt, Bonnibel taped the plastic in place, sealing the edges.

She straightened up by Marceline didn't move to create space between them. Instead, she studied Bonnibel thoughtfully, brown eyes soft and slightly perplexed. This close, Bonnibel could see her lips were chapped and a faint scar crossing her eyebrow. Two more distinct scars, paired together, marred the side of her neck lending her the street name 'Vampire Queen'. The first name she could understand, the second though...

She stepped backward and cleared her throat. "All done."

Bonnibel bit her upper lip, watching Marceline pad toward the bathroom, walking quietly despite the heavy boots. It might be best to keep a close eye on the mobster's daughter if for no other reason than Finn considered her a friend.

Turning resolutely, she pulled out several containers of leftovers from the refrigerator and prepared two plates. She set those aside to heat later, not knowing how long Marceline might indulge in hot water. Next, she went into the living room and yanked the cushions off the couch. Stacking them to one side, she pulled out the folding bed which hadn't seen use since the twins left. The sheets seemed clean enough, so she fetched a couple of pillows and a thick comforter.

Finally, she eased open the bathroom door and filched the dirty clothes laying on the floor. She took them to the wash room, loading them into the washer along with an oxygenating agent. Setting it on a cold cycle, she prepped the machine to run but didn't turn it on. She didn't want to scald her guest.

That done, she went to her room and fed Science, sitting on the edge of the bed and letting the white rat climb up her arm onto her shoulder. He wriggled with excitement, sniffing at her ear, then her mouth in case she'd eaten something more interesting than his pellets.

She petted him lightly as he crawled over her and onto the bed, exploring the nooks and crannies of the duvet. He burrowed under the folded sheet, tail twitching as he disappeared to tunnel to the other end. Popping out, he sat up and bounded toward her.

"Good boy," she praised because sometimes he forgot and tried to crawl off the bed.

He wriggled his nose, ears angled toward her, then wiped his whiskers with his delicate paws.

"C'mon, you need to eat, buddy," she said, scooping him up.

He grasped her fingers with his front paws, flattening against her spread palm and wrist, then hopped into his enclosure when they reached it.

She watched him scamper back and forth in excitement before he leapt into his wheel and took off at a run, tail raised high. Smiling at her low maintenance pet, she got up and went back to the living room.

The shower was running and might be for some time. She didn't begrudge Marceline the luxury. Going to the computer station set in the walled corner, she turned on her tower and settled in to complete some tedious data entry. While it booted, she unraveled ear buds, plugging them into a jack. Music was a panacea for every misery, especially boredom.

Oblivious to her environment, she didn't realize Marceline had finished until some small movement in her peripheral vision made her look up.

Marceline stood at the head of the hallway, a towel wrapped around her body, clearly searching for her clothing. Her bare shoulders were lean and angular, wiry muscle without sufficient body fat. But, it was the back of her shoulder that caught Bonnibel's attention. There was a tattoo, a large, red, double-bitted axe.

Marceline scowled at the pile of personal items that had been in her pockets, then glared at Bonnibel. The effect was marred by the towel wrapped around her head and her general state of undress.

"Where are my clothes?"

"In the wash. I promise you'll have them back in a couple of hours. In the meantime... Oh, shoot. I knew I forgot something."

Bonnibel stood and hurried past Marceline to her bedroom. Opening her bureau drawers, she rifled through various articles until she found a suitable t-shirt and pair of flannel pants. She considered underwear but decided it didn't matter. Hustling back to the living room, she handed the clothing to Marceline with an apology.

Marceline unfolded the purple plaid pants and black t-shirt, then grunted in acceptance, taking them into the bathroom. She came out moments later, rubbing the towel vigorously through her long, dark hair, muttering to herself.

"The hair dryer's under the sink," Bonnibel guessed.

Marceline flipped her hair, standing straight and pivoted right back into the bathroom without another word.

Bonnibel sat back down at her computer, knowing that much hair would take a while to dry and brush. She was almost done by the time Marceline re-emerged from the bathroom. She glanced past the monitor and promptly sucked in her breath. To say Marceline cleaned up nice would have been an understatement.

Her hair fell in heavy curtains around her shoulders, reaching her waist. Her skin was flushed from the heat and humidity of the bathroom, an expression of contentment from being warm and clean on her face. She looked younger than the woman who had followed Bonnibel into the apartment. An adult, certainly, but no longer one so cynical or suspicious.

Bonnibel jerked back mentally, reasserting her habitual, clinical detachment. Marceline was, at this time, her patient and a guest. She saved her file and closed out of the program before standing. Pushing in her chair, she went down the hall and started the wash machine. Then, she made for the kitchen to heat the plates of food.

Marceline had gotten the hint and sat down at the kitchen table by the time Bonnibel handed her a plate. She looked down at it uncertainly and didn't pick up her utensils.

"You can start if you want," Bonnibel prompted. "You want something to drink?"

"Water's fine."

"I have sweet tea, lemonade, orange juice, milk and soda," Bonnibel continued, ignoring the request she had expected.

"Um, juice," Marceline chose hesitantly.

Bonnibel poured her a glass as the microwave finished its cycle. Grabbing her own plate with an oven pad, she went to the table and sat down. She slid the glass over to Marceline and began eating as if nothing were out of the ordinary.

Marceline picked up her utensils and displayed inordinate social grace. She sat correctly with her elbows off the table, held the fork in her left hand, knife in her right, and cut her food into small bites. She even used a napkin tidily.

Bonnibel realized she was staring.

Marceline looked back sidewise, then smirked. "Surprise," she drawled. "Fancy mob bosses expect their kids to have good manners and etiquette or you get sent to your room without dinner."

"Makes sense," Bonnibel admitted, compelled to imitate her good manners.

It soon became obvious that Marceline couldn't restrain herself from eating quickly, though, and she finished her portion before Bonnibel was halfway through hers. She looked down at her plate, tip of her tongue between her lips before she pressed them together and set down her utensils correctly in an aligned pair across the plate.

"Are you sure you didn't mean to cross them?" Bonnibel teased.

Marceline stilled, then answered stiffly, "I'm grateful for dinner."

Too soon, Bonnibel realized with regret. She'd never had the best social skills, always more interested in facts and figures than people's feelings. "That's not what I meant," she said softly. "There's more if you want. I've had this two nights in a row now. I'd be happy to see the end of it."

Marceline played with the corner of her napkin before chewing on her lower lip. "If it's okay?"

"Not a problem. Here," Bonnibel said, taking her plate.

Marceline ate her second portion more slowly, keeping polite pace with Bonnibel. Normally, Bonnibel could be somewhat oblivious to social tension or awkward silences, but this one was too obvious.

Clearing her throat, she asked, "Is it all right if I ask about that tattoo? It appeared to be skilled work, although I didn't get a close look. There's something familiar about it."

Marceline shrugged. "It's a gang sign. My dad's people usually have it on their arm or wrist, but smaller, in black. He calls it 'the family axe'. When I was younger, before I really understood what he does, he was my hero. I wanted to be just like him, surrounded by people who always respected me and followed orders." She pulled her lips to one side in a rueful smile. "I didn't get it, so I got the tat to feel like I was part of it all."

"Ah, of course. That's where I've seen it," Bonnibel said, nodding, then asked, "Do you want to get rid of it?"

"Naw. It's okay," Marceline declined, spearing a stray pea with her fork. "I'm used to it. Be a bit weird if I didn't see it in a mirror every now and then and..."

"Yes?"

"Sometimes it protects me from other gang members. They see it, how fancy it is, and leave me alone just in case."

"Of course they can't see it during winter."

"Nope," Marceline agreed sourly then looked at Bonnibel with narrowed eyes. "Now, I answered a random question so I get to ask one, right?"

"Uh," Bonnibel stammered, then threw up her arms in a broad shrug. "I guess so. Sure."

"You have pictures of some kids on your desk and some crayon pictures hung up like fancy paintings. Earlier you talked like you had kids, but you don't," she said with pointed implication.

Bonnibel smiled sadly but fair was fair. "I fostered several children while I worked with my previous company. I took in the ones that were more difficult to place, the ones no one wanted." She closed her eyes against the memories, then took a deep breath and continued. "The first two were twins, autistic. It wasn't that long ago, but our understanding of autism spectrum disorders has advanced considerably in a short span of time. I did my best and ultimately, they were able to attend school, with assistance. I would do better if given the chance again."

"But it sounds like you did a good job," Marceline injected. "Like, I know it's real hard to deal with them."

"It was. I developed a great deal of patience raising them," Bonnibel admitted, smiling fondly. The two boys had been shrieking banshees when she received them and they left able to communicate their needs and restrain emotional outbursts by avoiding unpleasant environments.

"That's it?"

"There was a little girl after them, a baby. Her parents were poor, no insurance. When they discovered she had an inoperable brain tumor, they put her up for adoption, but no one wanted a dying baby."

"So you took her?"

"And, as a result, I became heavily involved in neurological research and degenerative conditions. She died, but I have her to thank for my current career path."

With another fortifying breath, Bonnibel picked up their empty plates and took them to the kitchen. She left them in the sink after running hot water over them. She turned to discover Marceline offering her glass and added it to the stack. Being accused of fraudulent and unsafe practices and losing her prior job had put an end to fostering. She knew, from considerable experience with similar conversations, the next likely question.

"Sounds like you really like kids," Marceline said, then snorted. "Duh. You run the Candy Kingdom. So why don't you have your own?"

"I can't," she answered quietly, tamping down on a familiar twist of unjust pain.

"Aw, c'mon. You're rich, you got a good job, you could pay for a great nanny or daycare. Lotsa women have kids on their own. You don't need a man to feel legit."

"No," Bonnibel said, brushing past her to exit the kitchen. "I mean, I can't."

Marceline's grin fell. "Oh." She rubbed at the back of her neck, looking away. "Sorry."

"It's not your fault. I've had quite a few years to get used to the fact," Bonnibel pacified, familiar with this too. People always assumed a woman was capable of bearing children. It was what society taught.

"I guess but I shouldn't have assumed. I mean it. I'm sorry."

"Sorry doesn't change anything," Bonnibel said automatically, repeating a litany she'd created for herself. "C'mon. I have more work to do but you can watch TV, or whatever. I can practically guarantee you'll fall asleep soon. Honestly, I'm surprised you're still conscious enough to chat."

"I can take a hint, Doc. I didn't mean to pry into something that personal and, anyway, everything I look at keeps moving. But, one last thing?"

"Yes?"

"I appreciate you trying to help but, where I come from, there's no free lunch."

Bonnibel weighed the insinuation, understanding that Marceline was balking at the charity. No protests would satisfy her underlying fear. So she proposed, "You could stop by sometimes and play for the children in the long-term care ward. The smallest new thing is incredibly exciting for them." And sometimes the last new thing they ever experienced, but she wouldn't say that aloud.

Nodding slowly, Marceline exhaled with visible relief. "Yeah, okay. I can do that."

"If that's settled, you should get to bed," Bonnibel replied with forced nonchalance.

Marceline kept a hand lightly on the counter as she moved into the living room, repeating the gesture with nearby furniture and walls as she made her way toward the bed. Climbing into it, she propped herself up on the pillows with deliberate motions. Then she stared in dismay at the blank television screen.

"Stay put," Bonnibel called, "I'll get you the remote."

First, she poured a glass of water and brought it over to Marceline, setting it on the displaced coffee table which had been shoved up beside the couch. "You should take some of your pills now, before the morphine wears off. They'll take about an hour to peak - to work."

Marceline shook out some pills and swallowed them right before Bonnibel handed her the remote. Her eyes were half closed and she blinked several times, but she offered a sleepy 'thank you'.

Bonnibel pretended not to notice and went to check the wash machine. She transferred the clothing to the dryer, pleased to see the blood hadn't stained too much. Then she sat back down at her computer. She used her music to tune out the program Marceline started watching and buried herself in numbers and charts. When she broke off, Marceline had balled up on her side, fast asleep.

Bonnibel got up quietly and recovered the remote. She turned off the television, hit the switch activating the automated blinds, and pulled the blanket more fully over the sleeping woman. Fetching the dried laundry, she laid it in a neat pile beside the personal belongings. After studying it for a moment, she went and fetched a pair of wool socks and an old sweater she rarely wore because it was too large. She added them to the pile, hoping Marceline wouldn't be too proud to take them.

Marceline was gone by the time Bonnibel woke, but so was all the clothing. The bed had been folded back into a couch, cushions replaced, blanket and pillows stacked on one end.

Bonnibel made herself coffee on auto-pilot, then opened the blinds to receive the morning sunrise. A thick layer of snow blanketed everything except messy roadways. She fingered the ceramic of her mug, gaze dropping from the horizon, searching, until she was studying a distant overpass.

She wished Marceline had stayed for breakfast.


End file.
